Free Valdemar 06 - [Exile 01] - Exile’s Honor by Mercedes Lackey Page A

sounded pleased and relieved.
    â€œRemind me” actually meant “Talamir, go figure it out for me,” of course. This time, however, it was a request that had been anticipated from the moment that Joyeaus had gotten all of the heads of the noble families to sit down at the same table and begin ironing out their differences. That young woman had the most remarkable talent for diplomatic maneuvering and soothing ruffled feathers that Talamir had ever seen. A touch of Empathy helped, of course, but mostly it was a knack for saying exactly the right thing at the right time, and being exquisitely sensitive to interpersonal nuances. She’d been utterly wasted on riding circuits. . . .
    â€œI’ll see to it, Majesty,” Talamir murmured, glad that there was at least one small task that would be relatively easy to discharge.
    Unlike the untimely arrival of that unlikeliest of Trainees. . . .
    â€œNow, what about that tannery that Lord Wordercan wants to put in?” Sendar continued. “He’s been nagging at me for the last week. I know it’s something he wants, but I’m not sure the market can absorb that much more leather.”
    Talamir bent his mind to the business of the Kingdom, allowing himself to put the matter of Trainee Alberich aside for the moment—untimely, unlikely, and oh so inconvenient as he was. . . .

3
    A LBERICH looked dubiously into the mirror at himself. The Healers had done a better job on his face than he ever would have thought possible, but nevertheless, he was scarred, and scarred badly. He looked as if someone had beaten his face with a red-hot whip several years ago. At least the scars weren’t a livid, half-healed red, or he’d be frightening children and horses. His weathered tan had faded as well in the time he’d spent recovering, and he was thinner, not that he’d been carrying any extra weight before. His cheekbones seemed especially prominent, and his mouth—
    Still stubborn, and they’d damned well better read it that way.
    He was wearing what was, apparently, the standard uniform for a Valdemaran cadet—
    :A Herald-trainee,: Kantor corrected. :I don’t believe that you will find that cadets and Trainees are at all equivalent.:
    This uniform was very new, and in fact, had been made to his measure while he was still staggering about trying to get his strength back. Some strange little fellow had invaded his sickroom one day, asked him to stand, measured him all over, took tracings of his feet, and vanished again. Today, one of these uniforms had appeared, along with a gentle-faced Herald he didn’t know, and Herald Talamir.
    The cut and design of this uniform was identical to the Heralds’ uniforms—well, all of the ones he’d seen other than Talamir’s. The difference was the color—a dark gray. Alberich approved of that color; it was a great deal less conspicuous than spotless white. It also suited his own somber disposition.
    â€œYou cut a good figure,” Talamir said approvingly. “But then again, we don’t often tailor a Trainee’s new outfits to him; it would be a waste of time and effort, since most of them are youngsters, still growing.”
    â€œThis isn’t the usual color for a Trainee,” the strange Herald (who had been introduced as Jadus) said apologetically. “We’re apparently out of the usual materials at the moment, and I’m afraid that you’re a bit larger than our run of usual newly Chosen, so you wouldn’t fit into the old ones from the common stock.” The man was older than Alberich, approaching middle age, with sandy hair, and expressive features so open and honest that Alberich knew he would never hold his own in a game of chance. But the one thing that Alberich noticed most about him were his hands, graceful, flexible, strong, but not powerful. They were not the hands of a fighter, not even an archer.
    The new Herald smiled